The first time an Italian asked me where I would be spending my settimana bianca I drew a blank.
“In bed?” I said, assuming a settimana bianca was similar to a nuit blanche, or a sleepless night.
After seven years of living in Italy, I now know the best answer: The Dolomites.
A week of fresh air in the mountains is a ritual Italians are as religious about as their summer holiday. Many Italian mamas will tell you that a settimana bianca is much more effective than a flu shot. In Italy, the question is not if you will be taking your settimana bianca but when. Parents pull children out of school without batting an eyelash, and teachers shrug their shoulders at incomplete roll calls.
It was only just recently that I discovered a new world of skiing far removed from the rites and rituals I grew up with in America.
Growing up, my partner in crime on the ski slopes was my younger brother. Skiing to us always meant waking up early, packing the car with frost-bitten fingers, and racing to the chairlift so that we were the first to make it to the top. On the eight slopes of the ski resorts’ Catamount and Butternut (the Alps of upstate New York, we thought), we mastered sliding down ice patches and skiing through snow-making machines. We always assumed that the lift line was supposed to be longer than the ride down. And that it was normal to wear a blanket on the chairlift when it was snowing.
Until I met my husband and recently experienced skiing in Italy.
Let’s just start with the alarm clock. It was usually set for nine o’clock. This gave us a half hour to stumble to breakfast and take advantage of the all-you-can-eat buffet. With our tummies content with cappucini and cornetti, we would gear up for the day and walk in our ski boots to the chairlift, just three minutes from our hotel’s front door.
Once our chairlift deposited us on top of the mountain, we’d promptly remove our skies and have a mint tea or a second cup of coffee while seated on picnic tables built from the pine trees that surrounded us. We then would take our first ride down at about 11:00 or 11:15. After following a subway system of chairlifts and gondolas, we would arrive at the tippy top of the mountain where signs pointed in contrasting directions to encourage us to the north, south, east and west side of the mountains. We skiied for two hours and then plopped down for sausages, fries and a cold beer at our favorite rifugio. After a hot toddy of grapppa, we skiied another two hours and then took the subway of chairlifts home. Hot chocolate, a long nap, and then a three-course dinner. (On some nights, we’d have a massage before dinner.) Dinner was followed by a fierce round of gin rummy. And bedtime came shortly thereafter.
I loved skiing as a child and love it even more as an adult. I loved my childhood partner in crime on the slopes. And I adore my partner for life, who gave me my first kiss seven years ago today. It’s all downhill from here.
